Lady Isobel's Champion (17 page)

Isobel glanced thoughtfully at the reliquary concealed beneath the red cloth. It made no sense to find it in Morwenna’s workroom, the theft had happened
after
her death. Thank the Lord, there could be no possible link between Morwenna and the thief. Lucien had had enough to concern him without the added worry that his dead wife might have been colluding with thieves.

Although someone in Ravenshold had to be involved. Who? Sir Raoul was out of the question. As was Sir Gawain. And Solène had struck her as an honest woman...

‘Where is Sir Arthur?’

‘Arthur’s in Troyes. His tenure here has finished—he’s enlisted as one of Count Henry’s Guardians.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘I would put my life in his hands and rest easy.’

Helplessly, Isobel looked at Lucien. She had not been at Ravenshold long enough to know who else might be involved. And the relic ought to be returned to Abbess Ursula as soon as possible. She must set aside her reservations, her anger, and her hurt pride. She and Lucien were married. If they did not learn to work together, there was no hope for them.

This is the time to tell him about the reliquary.

* * *

Isobel looked like a queen, Lucien thought. Beautiful and unattainable. She was standing in a shaft of sunlight, though how she looked so queenly was a mystery given she was wearing the most dusty, unqueenly gown in Champagne. The gown revealed more curves than it concealed—a waist that he could span with two hands; the roundness of her hips; the alluring press of soft breasts against the bodice. Tendrils of hair curled in some disorder about her forehead—fine filaments of pure gold. A fitting crown for a woman who had the bearing of a queen. A very desirable queen.

Her mouth was turned down at the corners. There was a wariness about her that he had not seen before; it had been apparent the moment he’d walked in. It was hardly surprising—learning about Morwenna had opened a gulf between them. Lucien had anticipated just such an outcome. What he had not anticipated was how much it would disturb him. He did not want to be distanced from Isobel.

Isobel had control, he would give her that. Learning about Morwenna must have knocked her back. Yet she had not shouted and screamed, she had simply retreated. He smiled to himself. Her training was showing, retreat was a nun’s solution. He looked at her mouth again, wondering when he would win another smile. Isobel might have been trained by nuns, but she was no nun herself.

She had returned to hear him out. In similar circumstances, Morwenna would have raged and stormed, there would have been floods of tears and the rending of clothes. The two women could not be more different.

Lucien found himself watching her mouth, hoping to see it relax. He ached to kiss her. He wanted to carry her off to his bed and make love to her. If Isobel gave him leave, if she let their bodies speak to each other, he was certain they could bridge that gulf.

Trust. Isobel no longer trusts me, I have to teach her to trust me.
This was of overriding importance. Lucien couldn’t quite account for how important it was, save to say that it was simply unacceptable for there to be distance between them. The quickest way to regain that sense of closeness was surely to possess her. Utterly. Thoroughly.
I want her.

The chill in her eyes told him there was slim chance of that happening until he had made amends. Despite the polite facade, Isobel had not buried her anger. She was shocked, perhaps hurt. What else was going through her head? He had no idea. What had she been doing when he came in? Trying to find out about Morwenna? It was only natural, he supposed. Women were inquisitive.

She was biting her lip and he wished she wouldn’t. Particularly when he was trying to do the right thing and stop thinking about kissing her. About more than kissing her—

‘Lucien, there’s something you must see.’

‘Hmm?’

Her brow furrowed and she blushed so prettily he felt a secret throb of desire. ‘Lucien, you are not paying attention. This is important.’

Lucien hid a smile, she looked so earnest. He might not know his wife’s thoughts, but apparently she found it easy to divine the carnal direction of his. Heartened by the blush—it must mean her heart was not set completely against him—he moved closer, but the moment he was inhaling that tantalising hint of honeysuckle and roses, an imperious hand was raised to hold him off. None the less, he would swear the sparkle was back in her eyes. She looked less guarded. Something inside him relaxed. Thank God, the gulf was not impassable...

He looked down at her. ‘You have something to show me, little dove?’

Her flush deepened, and she made a ‘tsking’ sound. ‘Lucien, please.’ But he could see how her eyes had darkened. Triumphant—
she still desires me!
—he reached for her even as she twisted away. His arms closed on empty air.

‘Lucien, look.’

There was a faded red cloth on the table. She whisked it aside and he found himself staring at a gilt casket, an enamelled gilt casket of great rarity. One glance and he knew its provenance.
Limoges reliquary.
Blue enamel gleamed; gold glittered; long-robed saints peered out through a border of roses.

‘What the devil?’ Lucien picked it up. ‘This is the reliquary that was snatched from the Abbey.’ He took the time to study it. The border of roses formed a trellis behind which the saints marched along, haloes agleam. Each figure and rose was enamelled with breathtaking artistry. Here was the blue of lapis lazuli; this red reminded him of poppies; this yellow was the colour of Isobel’s hair when touched by sunlight...

Their eyes met.

‘What the blazes is this doing at Ravenshold?’

Isobel spread her hands. ‘I was hoping you might offer a suggestion...’

‘Where did you find it? It wasn’t on the table earlier.’

She waved at a cavity in the wall where the plaster had fallen away. ‘It was in there. This stone...’ she nudged a chunk of fallen masonry with her shoe ‘...was wedged in front to hide it.’

He gave her a penetrating look. ‘It can’t have been Morwenna, if that is what you are implying. Morwenna—’

‘—died before the reliquary was taken.’ Cool fingers briefly touched his. ‘Lucien, I realise Morwenna wasn’t involved. But someone was. It didn’t get there by itself.’

Lucien shook his head. ‘If I hadn’t seen it here I would never have believed it. No one at Ravenshold would—’ He broke off, thinking. Remembering. ‘Geoffrey,’ he said, and even to his own ears, his voice was hollow. ‘It could have been Geoffrey.’

Lucien set the reliquary back on the trestle and rubbed his forehead. ‘I was beginning to suspect he might be involved. Earlier, when Joris and I came back from Troyes, a woman hailed me by the gatehouse.’

‘The girl in the dark-green cloak?’

‘That’s the one.’

Isobel nodded. ‘I saw her from the walkway and wondered who she was.’

Lucien felt empty. Geoffrey had been involved with theft. For God’s sake why? In a flash, his brain supplied him with the answer.
For money. Geoffrey needed money to buy medicines for his mother.

It was an unpleasant realisation, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Geoffrey had had access to the tower room; and he had likely died in a thieves’ quarrel.
Lord, the shame of it. That one of my household knights should stoop to treat with a thief!

Lucien blamed himself. If he had shown more interest in Ravenshold, Geoffrey could have applied to him for help. If he had been a better lord he would have given it without being asked.
I knew the lad’s mother was ill, but whenever I left Ravenshold, I couldn’t get away fast enough.

‘
Mon Dieu
, Isobel.’ Reaching for her, he slid an arm about her waist. Her body felt stiff against his, she was still upset, but she did not rebuff him.

‘Lucien, the girl at the gate—who is she?’

‘Her name is Clare. She’s the girl I suspect was Geoffrey’s sweetheart.’

‘What did she want?’

‘She wants me to protect Geoffrey’s name. She reminded me that he was a good man. As if I needed telling. What she was saying made no sense earlier. It does now.’ He glanced at the reliquary. ‘Good man or not, Geoffrey was embroiled with thieves. And it got him killed.’

Isobel looked earnestly up at him. ‘Why? Why should a knight stoop so low?’

‘Geoffrey had no land; his mother’s ailing and he is—was—a loving son. My guess is that Geoffrey needed money for her.’

‘It would help to know more.’

‘It would indeed. Clare asked me to protect Geoffrey’s reputation for his mother’s sake. I shall need to speak to her again. As well as Count Henry.’

‘Oh?’

‘Troyes has suffered a spate of thefts recently, the theft of the relic is but one of them.’

She looked pensive. ‘There’s a gang of outlaws in the area?’

‘It would seem so. There has to be a ringleader and Count Henry wants him caught. Henry won’t allow anything to tarnish the reputation of his fairs. It’s a matter of revenues.’

‘If traffic to the Winter Fair is diminished, so are Count Henry’s revenues.’

‘Exactly. The fellow who took this...’ Lucien jerked his head at the reliquary ‘...could be the man Count Henry is looking for.’

‘He’s a cold-blooded murderer.’

‘He will be caught. Whatever Geoffrey did, I doubt he deserved to die.’ The reliquary gleamed up at him from the table. ‘Tomorrow, I shall inform the Abbess that the relic has been found. Before she gets it back, she will have to convince me that adequate arrangements have been made to keep it safe. After that I shall speak to Clare. She’s still living with Geoffrey’s mother.’

Isobel curled her fingers into his sleeve. ‘Lucien, do be careful what you say, Geoffrey’s mother—’

‘I shall be tactful.’

She frowned at the reliquary. ‘If you are right and Geoffrey brought the relic here, why was he killed?’

‘At the moment, all we have to go on are assumptions. Everyone knew the relic was coming to Troyes, it could have been stolen to order. If Geoffrey was in collusion with the thief, we might assume that his role was to make contact with the buyer.’

Her eyes held his. ‘And the tournament was the ideal place for Geoffrey to arrange to meet them.’

‘It seems plausible.’ Lucien shook his head. ‘Although none of this answers the question of why my knight was killed.’

‘He got greedy? He wanted too large a share of the proceeds?’

Lucien nodded, that was his assessment too. He frowned at the wall cavity. ‘Do you reckon the killer knew where Geoffrey put it?’

‘I have no idea.’ She looked earnestly up at him. ‘If he does, he is certainly bold enough to try to get it back. Will you be increasing the guard?’

Lucien grunted. Isobel’s nose was aristocratic, straight and slim. He had never given noses much thought before now, but he rather liked hers. At this moment it was well within kissing distance. ‘The guard? Yes, I shall double the guard on the gatehouse and increase the night watch. The men will be given orders to detain anyone—save you, little dove—who attempts to come up here.’ Leaning forwards, he dropped a light kiss on her nose. He was relieved when she did not push him away. He picked up the Limoges casket. ‘In the meantime, this is going straight in my strongbox.’

Chapter Sixteen

O
ver the next few weeks, Isobel saw little of her husband. A pattern evolved, and it was as though she had married a lord of the night. He rode out of Ravenshold each dawn, and it was rare that he returned before sunset.

Isobel understood what he was doing. In the town, St Rémi’s Fair—the Winter Fair—was in full swing and Count Henry’s Guardian Knights needed his assistance. Lucien was helping with investigations into Sir Geoffrey’s death. It had become something of a personal quest for him, and it could scarcely be a more awkward, embarrassing quest. Lucien was appalled and shamed that one of his household knights had been involved with outlaws. He wanted to atone by running the thief to earth. He also wanted justice for Geoffrey.

One morning towards Christmas, they woke when it was still dark. The fire had burned out, and the air was chill. They held each other, cuddling sleepily for warmth until their bodies awoke. They made love. Afterwards, Isobel was lying in Lucien’s arms, when a clatter from outside told them the servants were up.

Lucien’s chest lifted in a sigh. ‘Time to go,’ he murmured. ‘More knights are being recruited and I have offered to train them. I’m taking them on patrol.’

‘Must you?’ Isobel was physically satisfied, and yet...she always had a sense that something was missing—that however physically close they became, she would never truly touch him. Lucien’s heart was closed.

December was slipping by and the bond between them was no stronger. If Lucien was the lover she had dreamed of, he was also a stranger. A knight who rode out on patrol every morning and joined her in their bed each night. There was passion a-plenty, but...

I want Lucien’s love. He beds me purely to get me with child—the enjoyment we give each other is incidental to his desire for an heir. If something doesn’t change—and soon—we are in danger of losing each other for ever. The distance between us will become a habit.

She pressed a kiss to his broad, muscled chest. ‘Can’t Sir Arthur take the new men on patrol?’

‘Isobel, I thought you understood.’

‘I do, Lucien, only too well.’

Blue eyes frowned into hers. ‘And what might that mean?’

‘You are not responsible for Sir Geoffrey’s flaws.’

The pulse near his scar throbbed. ‘I want the man who killed him.’

‘Has there been a sighting?’

‘Only rumours. Each day a new one springs up, but...’ He rubbed his face and sighed. ‘Incidentally, did I tell you that Abbess Ursula wheedled two Guardian Knights out of Count Henry?’

‘She did?’

‘They’ve been standing vigil over the reliquary. In my opinion they’ve been wasting their time. I told the Abbess that when the man strikes again, he will pick a different target. When the fair comes to an end and the Guardians have seen it safely back to St Foye’s, they will be reassigned in town.’

‘I am glad the relic’s going back to Conques.’

Idly, Lucien caressed her waist, his hand slid up to cover a breast before lifting away. ‘I thought you would be.’ He glanced at the door. ‘Where’s Joris? It’s time I left.’

‘Don’t go, Lucien. Stay with me. The castle—we need to make plans...’ She brought his head back to hers, even though it was clear that in his mind he was already patrolling the highways of Champagne.

‘Don’t you want that outlaw caught?’ he asked, pressing a cursory kiss to her cheek. He tossed back the bedcovers. ‘I’m sure he tried to kill you. I am leading the patrols for you, Isobel.’

After Lucien had scooped up his things and gone in search of Joris, Isobel stared after him.
He is doing it for me? That is surely an excuse. Sir Geoffrey’s involvement has pricked his conscience—he feels honour-bound to put things right.
And despite the wrongs done by his knight, he wanted the killer brought to justice.

It came to her that Lucien enjoyed the company of men and was at ease with them in a way he was not at ease with women. Thoughtfully, she twisted a strand of hair about her finger.
He is very male.
Lucien enjoyed riding out on patrol. There was an unruly element in his nature, one that she did not think would ever be tamed. Part of her would not want to tame it. If only he relished her company a little more. The only time they were close, truly close, was when they were physically joined.

We cannot go on like this. I will not go on like this.
Mentally, she felt numb. Her marriage was turning out to be a disaster. Here, there was much for her to do and she had made progress. She sat up, straightening the blue coverlet over her knees. She and Elise had worked on it together and when he had seen it, Lucien had given her a slow smile. He approved. Just as he had approved of the new standard they had worked for the hall. Slowly, his neglected castle was being brought back to life. But his approval in the domestic sphere was not enough. There was one vital area in which she was failing him
.

I am not with child. Am I to fail him in this, my main duty?
The thought made her sick at heart. Providing an heir was her first duty, but it had somehow become more than mere duty. She wanted to please him. It seemed that her fear of childbirth had been eclipsed by a growing affection for her husband.

It had turned her world upside-down to learn that during her nine years of waiting, Lucien had been married, but as the days had slipped by she had come to accept, even understand it. A strong point in Lucien’s favour had been his explanation as to why he had allowed his marriage to Morwenna to stand. He had kept Isobel in the dark because a moment of youthful folly had saddled him with an ailing wife. A wife tortured by inner demons. He had not acted out of malice, or avarice, or fecklessness. He was not callously cruel. In similar circumstances, most men would have had no compunction in throwing Morwenna to the wolves. Most men would have abandoned her.

Not Lucien.

Even though his marriage had not been a true marriage in any sense of the word, he had given Morwenna the run of Ravenshold. The carefree champion of the tourney field had been far from carefree. The paradox was that although Lucien had behaved dishonourably in deceiving Isobel, he had done so for honourable motives.

He had honoured his obligations to Morwenna, even though it had gone against his interests to do so. That deserved respect. And that was at the root of the paradox. The knight who sneered at the
chansons
, the knight who declared that love was little more than a cold-blooded decision was, she suspected, more chivalrous than any other.

Her eyes strayed to the jewel casket where the herbs she had bought from the apothecary lay. She doubted she would use them again. Somewhere on the journey from Turenne to Ravenshold, the thought of childbirth had lost its power to terrify. More terrifying by far was the fear that her husband would never open his heart to her.

* * *

In the Great Hall, Elise and a couple of serving girls had finished hanging holly balls for the Christmas feast, five days’ hence. Sprays of bay and ivy had been tied up with red ribbons and nailed to the beams. Beeswax candles burned on tables and wall sconces.

As the girls clambered down from their ladders, Isobel surveyed the hall. In the main, she was pleased—it no longer smelled like a midden. Lucien’s hall—and the rest of Ravenshold—had been transformed. Dirty rushes had been burned and the floors thoroughly scoured. Cellars had been cleared out and swept clean. Stores had been checked and restocked. There was plenty left to do but, come the Christmas feast, they would not be eating in a midden.

‘Lucie, Emily, thank you, that looks lovely. You may remove the ladders.’

As the girls clattered out, Isobel resumed her review. A fresh coat of limewash hid the soot of decades. And thanks to a cartload of wood that had been properly stored, the fire had stopped hissing like a sackful of snakes. Gouts of black smoke no longer belched from the fireplace. Solène had supplied rushes and herbs for the floor and at each footfall, the scents of thyme and lavender were released into the air.

‘Elise, please stay,’ Isobel said, bending to pull cloths out of a coffer. The linen was yellow and creased—spotted with candle wax, gravy and spilled wine. She’d been so busy elsewhere, the table linen had had to wait. ‘This really lets us down. See how badly laundered these are. And so frayed! This is beyond even your darning skills.’

‘They do look old,’ Elise agreed.

‘There’s a day or two left of the Winter Fair. When my lord returns I shall ask him if he will take me into Troyes to buy linen.’

‘It will be too late for this year, my lady. We’ll never get the cloths hemmed by the Christmas revels.’

‘I shall see what might be done in the laundry. However, buying linen is in part an excuse. I’d like to see the Winter Fair before it closes.’
If Lucien agrees, it will give us time together. Time away from the bedchamber, time when we might talk without the intrusion of our baser desires...

The door from the bailey opened and the candle flames swayed. Lucien strode in. The man at his side looked vaguely familiar.

‘There’s the Countess, by the coffer,’ Lucien said.

Isobel let the threadbare cloth drop on to the table as they approached. Recognising Lucien’s companion as one of her father’s equerries, a pang of foreboding shot through her. The equerry bowed, tugged straight his tunic, and produced a beribboned scroll. As he passed it to her, the ribbons trembled.
He is shaking. He will not meet my eyes.

‘Your name is Edouard, is it not?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘This is from my father?’

Edouard’s throat worked.

‘My apologies,’ Isobel said, moving to the sideboard. Setting down the scroll, she poured some ale. ‘You have ridden far. Please take this. Then you may give us your news.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Edouard took the cup and drained it.

‘More?’

‘No, thank you, my lady.’

Edouard took a deep breath. His eyes, as they met hers, were stricken. Whatever his message was, he was reluctant to deliver it. Icy fingers ran down her spine.
My father!

‘My lady, I regret to tell you that Viscount Gautier has died.’

At a stroke, Isobel was looking at everything from a great distance.
Father is dead.
She heard Lucien’s sharp, indrawn breath; she heard his footsteps as he came to her side; she felt the warmth of his body. And she might have been in another world.

‘Viscount Gautier has died?’ Lucien’s voice shattered the silence. ‘When?’

‘The Viscount died a week since,
mon seigneur
.’

‘How did it happen?’ Isobel asked, forcing words past her teeth. It seemed so unreal.
Father is dead.

‘It was a peaceful death, my lady. Lady Angelina found him; he had died in his sleep.’

* * *

Gripped by a sense of unreality, Isobel nodded as though she was taking in Edouard’s message.
Father is dead
. The words made sense, she understood them, but they seemed meaningless. Worthless. It couldn’t be true. Blindly, she reached for the jug of ale. ‘Please, you must still be thirsty.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Edouard jerked his head at the parchment on the side-table. ‘Lady Angelina has other news—it will be in the letter.’

‘The letter. Oh, yes. My thanks.’ Isobel picked up the letter and moved into a fall of light beneath a wall-sconce. Fingers on the seal, she added, ‘If you are hungry and cannot wait for supper, Elise will show you to the kitchens. Sir Gawain is the man to find about bedding and a space for the night.’

‘Thank you, my lady. Please accept my condolences.’

Isobel cracked the seal on her stepmother’s letter. Her father’s health had been poor of late, his death should not be a shock. Yet shock it was. Much of her life had been lived away from Turenne, away from her father. In the back of her mind she had cherished the hope that one day she would get to know her father better.
That will not happen.
She felt Lucien’s gaze burning into her as she bent over her stepmother’s letter and began to read.

My dear Isobel,

I greet you warmly, and send you God’s blessing. It is with much grief that I write to tell you this ill news. Your father the Viscount has gone to God. I know you will share my sorrow. It will relieve your mind to hear that he did not suffer. One day he was with us, and the next day God had taken him. I beg that you pray for your father’s soul. May he rest in peace.

Of my other news, you know already. And although I am grieved to lose your father after so short a time, you will be pleased to hear that I remain in good health. Daily I thank the Lord that your father knew about our baby. A child who will, I trust, act in some measure as a balm to the wound of your father’s death...

The baby Angelina carried was indeed balm for the pain of her father’s death. And since the child was expected in January, her stepmother had passed the time when miscarriage was most likely.
Her eyes prickled.

Lucien took her hand. ‘Isobel? Do you need to sit down? You look very pale.’

Father is dead.
She stiffened her spine. Lucien would have to learn about Angelina’s baby soon, such news couldn’t be kept from him for ever, but after learning about her father, she didn’t have the strength
. I will tell Lucien about the child, later
. In the meantime, she would teach him to open his heart to her.

I must because I love him. What I feel for him is far more than affection. Why did I not see this before? I love Lucien.

Grief for her father was a dull pain that pervaded every fibre of her being. She was full of regret. Because of her sex she had never had a chance to know her father. But love for Lucien overrode all that, even the hope that soon, Isobel of Turenne would have someone else to love.

I love Lucien. The baby will be born in January...I have until then to win him...

‘Isobel?’

Could Lucien read? Many noblemen could not. Had he seen what Angelina had written about the baby? Blinking away a blur of tears, Isobel rolled up the scroll and looked up at him. His gaze was enquiring. She did not think he had read the letter.